Juliet McMaster (email: jmcmaste@ualberta.ca)
is Professor Emeritus at the University of Alberta, author of Jane
Austen on Love, and Jane Austen the Novelist, and co-editor of The
Cambridge Companion to Jane Austen. She has also been Western Canadian Women’s
Foil Champion, and winner of the Erroll Flynn Award for the Flashiest Fencer.

“‘we
met by appointment,’” Brandon tells
Elinor, “‘he to defend, I to punish his conduct’”
(211). Willoughby, who seemed like the Good,
turns out to be the Bad; he
is challenged by Brandon, who seemed like the Ugly,
but turns out to be the Good.1
In the early days of the duel, such anomalies were thought to be
sorted out through Trial by Combat: the concept implies that
God or Providence will strengthen the arm of the Good, and suitably
punish the Bad. In this case, Willoughby should
be punished, but the two return from the fray “unwounded.”
What was the point?

Since it has been observable through the ages that the Deity can’t be
relied on to step in, combatants who want to settle a dispute take to
developing combat techniques that will avail them—in case the
Lord doesn’t. The principles of good and evil come to be
adjusted by the more aesthetic value of skill; and the successful
duelist is less likely to be the one with a just cause than the one
who handles his weapon most deftly. Seconds step in to
negotiate; and right and wrong come to be submitted to minute
protocols about “honor,” “giving the lie,”
and so forth. The best result to be hoped for, morally
speaking, was “satisfaction”—a shorthand implying
that honor is satisfied. Aesthetically speaking, however, duels
can afford high drama.

Should we imagine Willoughby and Brandon facing each other like Clint
Eastwood and his enemies in The Good, the Bad,
and the Ugly?—with that memorable sound
track playing; chewing cigars, sweat dripping, and fingers itching
for triggers? No. The seconds would have arranged for
more decorum and less accurate weapons; and the weather would of
course have been—well, English, and polite. No
rattlesnakes about.

Of course in the British Isles dueling had been illegal for centuries,
and occasionally a duelist who killed his opponent was hanged.2
But the practice was often winked at, especially for aristocrats, who
would be tried by their peers in the House of Lords, and usually let
off. When Lord Talbot took offence against an article about him
published by John Wilkes in the North Briton,
Wilkes agreed to meet him, even though, he wrote, “I knew his
Lordship fought with the King’s pardon in his pocket, and I
fought him with a halter about my neck” (Baldick 75).

Even quiet Steventon wasn’t immune from rumors of duels. In
1800 young Earle Harwood of Deane, a Lieutenant in the Marines, was
shot in the thigh and like to have his leg amputated. Was it a
duel, the gossips of the neighborhood wonder? His own testimony
would carry no weight on such a matter; but fortunately the angle of
the bullet’s entry proved the shot had to have been
accidental. So Jane Austen could reassure Cassandra that young
Harwood was “only unfortunate & not in fault” (8
November 1800). Like her heroine Elinor—and like her
favorite Sir Charles Grandison, who though an accomplished swordsman
refuses a challenge on principle—Austen didn’t approve of
dueling.

As the Harwood incident makes plain, despite being illegal dueling was
quite common, especially in the military. (Mind you, officers
were not allowed to challenge their superior officers: that
would be too tempting a shortcut to promotion.) During the
sixty-year reign of George III, which spanned Austen’s
lifetime, 172 duels were reported, 91 of which ended fatally (Keirnan
102). But because of the code of secrecy, many more duels would
have gone unreported, especially if there were no injuries, or only
minor ones. If one or other of the duelists let slip word of a
duel before it happened, he was deemed eager for the authorities to
prevent it, and a coward; and after
the fact, of course, both duelists would have reason to conceal their
criminal activity.

Through the decades the duel became increasingly ritualized, from the kind of
off-the-cuff scraps that we see between Montagues and Capulets in
Romeo and Juliet, to
the elaborate arrangements surrounding the offence, the challenge,
the negotiation of seconds, the choice of ground, weapons, and rules,
and the patching up after the encounter. Intricate protocols
were attached to all these elements. Sometimes the seconds
would fight too. Often a doctor was in attendance.

What happened between Willoughby and Brandon? This much one can
gather from the text of Sense and Sensibility;
and the knowledge we gain in the later volumes throws light on
certain mysteries of the first.

In February in Bath, Willoughby seduces sixteen-year-old Eliza Williams,
and subsequently abandons her. She disappears from her
guardian’s ken for what must have been eight harrowing months.
“‘What I thought, what I feared, may be imagined,’”
Brandon says later; “‘and what I suffered too’”
(209). (Hence the mournful demeanor in Devon that so
disqualifies him as a suitor.) Then in October, destitute and
eight months pregnant, Eliza finally writes to Brandon. The
party assembled for the trip to Whitwell witness his shock as he
recognizes her handwriting. He says it is “‘merely
a letter of business’” “‘from town’”
(63). He is (a) covering for Eliza, and (b) already plotting a
challenge to her seducer, whoever he is. When asked when he’ll
come back, he replies that his return is “‘so uncertain,
. . . that I dare not engage for it at all’”
(65). Read, “I may be dead.”

And right there in the company, as Brandon prepares to rush to Eliza’s
aid, Eliza’s seducer whispers to his new girlfriend that
Brandon is deliberately spoiling their day of pleasure: “‘I
would lay fifty guineas the letter was of his own writing’”
(65). Willoughby, of all people, should know about faking the
authorship of letters. Here he adds insult to injury: first the
dishonorable seduction, then giving the lie to the man he has
injured. It’s a gratuitous piece of dastardliness.

Willoughby soon has to face up to his misdeeds. Once Brandon has got his
name from Eliza, he writes his own letter, which Willoughly receives
two weeks after Brandon’s hasty departure. Now it’s
Willoughby who has to dash to town, again “‘on business’”
(75-76). Again, when pressed to return, he mutters, “‘My
engagements at present . . . are of such a nature—that—I
dare not flatter myself’—” (76). He too is
thinking, “I may be dead.”

Both principals, as decorum required, are highly secretive about the duel
they know must be coming. Brandon’s “steadiness in
concealing [the] cause” of his trip amazes Mrs. Jennings (70).
Willoughby’s uncharacteristic secrecy disturbs Elinor.
“‘[A] plain and open avowal of his difficulties would
have been more to his honour I think,’” she says (81),
little understanding that he is involved in a different “affair
of honor” that absolutely demands secrecy.3

It’s worth noting that even in his late confessional scene with Elinor,
Willoughby still doesn’t mention the duel. But his rich
relative and hostess Mrs. Smith knows about it, apparently, almost as
soon as he received Brandon’s challenge. Willoughby
admits, “‘Mrs. Smith had somehow or other been informed,
I imagine by some distant relation, . . . of an affair
. . .’” (321). But for all his caginess,
we must assume that it was Brandon who told her, at almost the same
time that he issued the challenge to Willoughby. It might be
considered unmanly for the Colonel to go whining to an elderly female
relative of the man he is challenging. But Brandon’s
first priority, like that of the Bennets and Gardiners in Lydia’s
case, would be to save Eliza’s reputation by getting her
seducer to marry her. First he actually does what Mrs. Bennet
fears Mr. Bennet will do—that is, he tells the seducer, in
effect, “Marry the girl or accept my challenge.” As
“a man and a soldier”—a much younger man than Mr.
Bennet, and single—Brandon takes this route. But, like
the Gardiners and Darcy, he backs up this persuasion with a financial
inducement. Wickham will get money if he marries the girl;
Willoughby will lose his inheritance if he doesn’t.

Mrs. Smith certainly argues as Brandon would wish, for, Willoughby tells
us, “‘in the height of her morality, good woman! she
offered to forgive the past, if I would marry Eliza. That could
not be’” (323). He would rather have the duel and
marry Miss Grey, though he doesn’t much like her either.
One element in his thinking would probably be that if he manages to
blow out Brandon’s brains, Brandon won’t get the girl he
had hoped to have himself.4

All this is of course off the scene, and to a degree conjectural.
But Austen has given us clues enough to reconstruct some of the
untold motivation. There are many passages that become heavy
with irony when we know of the duel. When Mrs. Jennings greets
Colonel Brandon in London she gabbles cheerfully, “‘I do
not know what you and Mr. Willoughby will do between you about [Miss
Marianne]’” (163). She doesn’t know they have
already done it.

“‘One meeting was unavoidable,’” Colonel Brandon ominously
tells Elinor. “‘I could meet [Willoughby] in no other
way. . . .’ Elinor sighed over the fancied
necessity of this; but to a man and a soldier, she presumed not to
censure it” (211). Setting Elinor’s disapproval
aside for the moment, we must ask in what way they did
meet. The first question to be considered is: swords or
pistols?

Through the 1770s, the fencing master Henry Angelo tells us, “every
person with the least pretension to gentility wore his sword,”
and a duel could follow swiftly on the offence (1:59). A
gentleman’s smallsword was finely adapted for dueling; fencing,
the practice sport for the duel, was a popular activity.

Schools of fencing, both in England and France, were thriving concerns.
Brandon and Willoughby, particularly if they went to Eton or Harrow,
could have learned the gentleman’s sport of fencing from one of
the Angelos, father and son. Domenico Angelo (1716-1802),
author of the classic School of Fencing,
was England’s greatest master, and taught the Prince of Wales
and his brothers5
His son Henry kept up his famous fencing academy by the Opera House
on Haymarket. Domenico coached the boys at Eton, Henry the boys
at Harrow.

Henry Angelo, frontispiece to Reminiscences

Domenico Angelo, from École d’Armes

Everybody who was anybody trained with these masters and made friends of them:
Garrick, Sheridan, Reynolds, Rowlandson, Gillray, and Byron all
frequented their schools (Cohen 81). When we see Colin Firth as
Darcy working off his passion in a fencing bout, he would likely have
been in the Angelo Fencing Academy.

Having been a fencer myself, I would like to
think of swords as still the possible weapons for the encounter in
Sense and Sensibility,
even though by 1800 pistols had largely replaced them as the dueling
weapon of choice. Swords pertained for longer in the military
(Keirnan 142) and in France; Colonel Brandon is a soldier, and
he has a sister in Avignon (63).
Willoughby is fashion-conscious and romantically inclined, and would
surely fancy himself with a foil. Both move in fashionable
circles in London, where an afternoon spent at Henry Angelo’s
salle in Haymarket would be a frequent recreation for men, and even
occasionally for women.

But no, I fear I must concede that this duel had to be with pistols.
Willoughby, as the party challenged, would have the choice of
weapons; and we first meet him as “a gentleman carrying a gun”
(42). Moreover we hear from Sir John that he is “‘a
very decent shot’” (43). Swords required more skill
than pistols, and against a trained soldier Willoughby would want
every advantage available.

The clincher is the fact that Brandon and Willoughby return from the duel
“‘unwounded’” (211). Pistols were still
unreliable, and it was not unusual for both principals to miss each
other. Of the early encounter between Wilkes and Lord Talbot,
for instance, though they were only eight yards apart, Wilkes wrote
that at the signal “both our fires were in very exact time, but
neither took effect” (Baldick 75). A duel with swords,
however, didn’t end until one or both principals were
“blooded,” disabled, or dead.6
“First blood” would in general be the minimal cause for
ending an encounter. The modern épée, for which
the target includes arms, legs, and head, is the practice weapon for
this kind of duel. But the foil, for which only the torso
counts as valid target, is the practice weapon for the more deadly
kind of swordplay.

In the famously savage duel in Hyde Park between the
Duke of Hamilton and Lord Mohun in 1712, both combatants had multiple
wounds on arms and legs, but kept fighting until it seems the Duke
drove his sword right through Mohun’s body, “up to the
hilt of the sword” (Baldick 71-72), and Mohun nevertheless
managed to deliver a mortal wound to the Duke’s breast.
This duel is very fully documented. Swift wrote about it, and
comforted the bereaved Duchess. Thackeray included a fictional
version in Henry Esmond.
The testimony at the Coroner’s inquest following the deaths is
still extant. There a labourer on the scene called Joseph
Nicholson testified “he . . . heard the Duke’s
second say By G--d My Lord Duke’s
killed; and the other said, By
G—d, My Lord Mohun’s killed; the
Former then said, We’ve made a fine
Mornings work on’t” (“Substance”
5). The homely and detailed testimony of footman and coachman,
passer-by and inn-keeper, brings the encounter to life, and reveals
the complex but clandestine arrangements: the Duke comes in his
own coach, the lord arrives by hackney, both take pains to conceal
their purpose and to keep their swords out of sight. At the
end, with both principals dead, and London waking up to the
sensational news, the hackney coachman keeps asking who will pay his
fare.

With pistols, things were less bloody. But those determined to do
damage could resort to the duel au mouchoir,
as it was called. Here the combatants are close enough to hold
a corner of the same handkerchief: more or less a suicide pact
(Keirnan 144). One famous bloodless duel was in 1829, between
the Earl of Winchilsea and the Duke of Wellington, who was Prime
Minister at the time. The earl had publicly called the Duke’s
political policies unconstitutional, and refused to apologize.
“I now call upon your lordship,” the Duke wrote, “to
give me that satisfaction for your conduct which a gentleman has a
right to require, and which a gentleman never refuses to give”
(Baldick 105)—the kind of formula that Brandon might well have
used to Willoughby. At the command “Fire!”
Winchilsea, unwilling to risk killing the Prime Minister and hero of
Waterloo, kept his pistol pointing to the ground. Seeing this,
the Duke fired wide; then Winchilsea fired in the air; and it was
over—all but the press coverage, which was considerable
(Longford 2:188).

Caricature by W. Heath of the duel between the Duke of Wellington and the Earl of Winchilsea

Would Willoughby have played the Winchilsea role and been nobly ready to
receive Brandon’s bullet without firing himself? Not
likely. Clearly he feels little guilt about Eliza and blames
not himself but “‘the violence of her passions, the
weakness of her understanding’” (322). Nor would
Brandon have held his fire, given his challenge and the reason for
it. I believe the seconds would prudently have placed their
principals well apart, in good missing distance.7

Who would the seconds have been? Brandon would undoubtedly get a
brother officer; Willoughby’s second would probably be someone
rather disreputable: he’s not likely to ask any relative
of Miss Grey to act for him.

But the Brandon-Willoughby affair, I suggest, isn’t the only duel
in Sense and Sensibility.
Despite Elinor’s head-shaking disapproval of the “fancied
necessity” of the men’s duel, she engages in a duel
herself, a duel of words. Austen has quite deliberately used
the terms and the drama of the duel for the encounter between Elinor
and Lucy Steele.

Women fencers, and even women duelists, were not unknown. The famous
Chevalier D’Éon, though actually a man, was required by
the terms of his pension to dress as a woman, and he was no doubt an
inspiration to actual women. In a much-publicized fencing match
of 1787 against France’s best master, the Chevalier St. George,
D’Éon won, though he was nearly sixty at the time and
also “encumbered . . . with three petticoats”
(H. Angelo 2:421). The young Prince of Wales was present on the
occasion, as well as both Angelos, father and son, and the match was
depicted in a painting and circulated in engravings.

Engraving after a painting by Robineau: “The Assault or Fencing Match which took place
between Mademoiselle La Chevalière D’Eon de Beaumont and Monsieur de Saint George
on the 9th of April 1787. At Carlton House in the presence of His Royal Highness, several
of the Nobility, and many eminent Fencing Masters of London.” (H. Angelo opp. 2:46)

But real women were learning fencing too. The eccentric Duchess of
Queensbury donned jacket and mask to fence with her protégé
the Negro Soubise (H. Angelo 1:224). And a lively watercolor by
Rowlandson, a close friend of the Angelos, depicts a woman in white
jacket and skirt, fencing with a white-clad male fencer in Henry
Angelo’s Fencing Academy in 1816. The assembled
company—more of them spectators than clad for fencing—shows
that watching fencing was a popular entertainment.

The duel between Elinor and Lucy, however, is with words, not swords, or
pistols either. There are notable parallels with the men’s
duel. You could say that Lucy seduced young Edward almost as
surely as Willoughby seduced Eliza. That seduction, and her
exulting over it, is Lucy’s “offence.” And it
is placed tellingly at the end of Volume I: “for a few
moments, [Elinor] was almost overcome—her heart sunk within
her” (134): a highly dramatic first-act closer.
Volume II opens with Elinor meditating a challenge: “she
was firmly resolved to act by [Lucy] as every principle of honour
. . . directed”; and “she could not deny
herself the comfort of endeavouring to convince Lucy that her heart
was unwounded” (142). Her “comfort” sounds
much like the “satisfaction” sought by male duelists.
She briefly thinks about taking “counsel” from
seconds—her mother or her sister; but she decides she is
“stronger alone” (141). It is to be a thoroughly
feminine affair, with even Sir John called away to Exeter (143).

Much is made of the protocol for achieving a venue for their private
encounter. Since there are no seconds, the principals must work
things out for themselves, and they do. Horrid little
Annamaria’s filigree basket becomes the cover for their
encounter. And Elinor is as devious and secretive as any
duelist before the fact. “‘Perhaps’”,
she tells her hostess, “‘I may be of some use to Miss
Lucy Steele, in rolling her papers for her. . . . I should
like the work exceedingly, if she would allow me a share in it.’”
Like the persnickety
work on the basket? Not likely!8
But it’s true that Lucy can’t “‘labour
singly’” at this work. It takes two to duel, as to
tango. “Lucy made room for her with ready attention, and
the two fair rivals were thus seated side by side at the same table,
and with the utmost harmony engaged in forwarding the same work”
(145)—that is, their own affair of honor. The passage
drips with irony in any case, but the duel analogy, involving the
false camaraderie of deadly enemies colluding to achieve a venue for
mortal combat, gives it an extra resonance. And Marianne at the
piano screens the encounter as effectively as the secluded groves of
Hyde Park or Leicester Fields.

The duel itself is introduced in a new chapter, and soon the combatants
are engaged in the verbal cut and thrust that is one of the most
loaded dialogues in Austen’s fiction. The stage
directions carry on the suggestion of a barbed exchange: Elinor
beginning in a “firm, though cautious tone”; Lucy’s
“little sharp eyes full of meaning”; Elinor “careful
in guarding her countenance,” and “with a smile . . .
conceal[ing] very agitated feelings”; Lucy speaking “with
some pique”; and so on (146-50). At one point, like
fencers resting between onslaughts, “Elinor thought it wisest
to make no answer . . . lest they provoke each other to an
unsuitable increase of ease and unreserve” (150). It
sounds as though she wants to avoid that interruption in the rapier
and dagger match in Hamlet:
“Part them, they are incensed” (5.2.245).

We as readers may smile at the “fancied necessity” of the
two encounters. Do Elinor and Lucy get the “satisfaction”
that a duel promises? No. At the end, “[N]othing
had been said on either side, to make them dislike each other less
than they had done before” (151), and Elinor has signally
failed to convince Lucy that her heart is unwounded. The
“unwounded” condition belongs only to the men in their
more physical duel. (Incidentally, the word “unwounded,”
applied in Sense and Sensibility in
relation to both the men’s duel and the women’s, occurs
nowhere else in Austen’s fiction, and thus forms another link
between the two episodes.)

Where her famous contemporary Walter Scott provided
dozens of duels in his novels, seriously pondered the ethics of
dueling, and even “came close to a whiff of the gunpowder of
honour” himself (Keirnan 228), Austen chose not to make a scene
of the physical encounter, only of the duel of words. And she
provides neither tragedy nor triumph. In Sense
and Sensibility the duel has been just a
social form, or a ritualized way of releasing aggression; not the
defeat of the Bad, nor a means of establishing the Good .
But it certainly makes for a satisfactory aesthetic experience!

I have reconstructed the off-stage action of the Brandon/Willoughby
duel and explored the implications of the on-stage Elinor/Lucy
encounter. While I’m at this business, I can’t
resist a little speculation on after-events. Austen herself was
interested in the after-lives of her characters, and when she went to
exhibitions in London she looked for portraits of “Mrs.
Bingley” and “Mrs. Darcy” (24 May 1813).

When Elinor has somewhat recovered from the influence of Willoughby’s
personal charm during his nighttime visit to Cleveland, she is able
to remind Marianne “‘that all Willoughby’s
difficulties have arisen from the first offence against virtue, in
his behaviour to Eliza Williams’” (352). This
recollection brings Eliza and her concerns back into the limelight,
and late in the novel. Will she be shipped off to Australia,
drowned in the Serpentine, or otherwise swept under the carpet, like
other fallen women? I believe we are meant to care something
for her fate. Mrs. Jennings, who thinks Eliza is Brandon’s
illegitimate daughter, and doesn’t know about her elopement,
breezily dismisses this awkward appendage of Brandon’s.
Once the Colonel is married, she says, “‘the little
love-child . . . may be ’prenticed out at small
cost’” (196). But there is reason to think Brandon
will be more conscientious about his lost love’s daughter.
Since his profession required him to travel, he sent her first to
school and then into “‘the care of a very respectable
woman’” (208). He tells Elinor that once he
inherited his estate, Eliza “‘frequently visited me at
Delaford’” (208). No doubt that is how Mrs.
Jennings knows about her.

Elinor asks Brandon, when they meet in London, if he has been in town since
his hasty departure from Barton. “‘Yes,’ he
replied, with some embarrassment, ‘almost ever since; I have
been once or twice at Delaford for a few days’” (162).
His embarrassment suggests that his visits to Delaford may have been
to arrange for Eliza’s lying-in there, and perhaps to visit her
afterwards. Indeed, later he tells Elinor, “‘I
removed [Eliza] and her child to the country, and there she remains’”
(211). If he has installed Eliza at Delaford, what will happen
to her and her child when the Colonel brings home Marianne as his
bride?

In the second volume of Richardson’s Pamela
(1741), the virtuous Pamela insists on adding Mr. B’s
love-child, Miss Goodwin, to the family. That was in an earlier
and more sexually tolerant time. But forgiveness of a spouse’s
past misdemeanors, including tolerance of his illegitimate offspring,
has been a moral test for many a heroine, including Elizabeth
Hervey’s protagonist in Louisa
(1790), and Charlotte Smith’s Geraldine in Desmond
(1792)10—all
the way to Jane Eyre (1847),
where Jane takes on Mr. Rochester’s Adèle Varens.
Can we suppose Marianne will be less generous?

Marianne’s case, I concede, isn’t quite the same. The transgression
to be forgiven is not Brandon’s, but Eliza’s, and we all
know that forgiveness for women comes at a higher price than that for
men. However, the principle of not visiting the sins of the
parent on the innocent child is the same. If the Vicar of
Wakefield can welcome the return of his fallen daughter Olivia, would
Marianne be less forgiving of a girl who, like herself, was a victim
of Willoughby’s charms? Marianne is surely as warm and
generous as those other heroes and heroines.

So I hereby advise any author who plans a spin-off sequel to Sense
and Sensibility to include Eliza Williams as
one of the denizens of Delaford. And let us not forget her
baby. By an ironic turn of fate, and thanks to Brandon’s
survival of the duel, Marianne is to become a sort of
step-grandmother to Willoughby’s child.

Notes

1.
This paper was composed for the plenary panel at JASNA Fort Worth in which
the three Canadian panelists, Elaine Bander, Juliet McMaster, and
Peter Sabor, connected with Fort Worth’s western theme in
engaging Sergio Leone’s iconic film, The
Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.

2.
For instance, Major Alexander Campbell, who killed Captain Alexander Boyd
in a duel in Ireland in 1807, gave himself up in England, and was
tried in Ireland, found guilty, and hanged in 1808 (Baldick 99-100).

3.
In his article on this duel, Vince Brewton notes, “The silence
surrounding the duel, a reticence kept by all of the participants,
including Willoughby, is of considerable importance” (87).

4.
Vince Brewton considers the duel as significant in revealing the “otherwise
undisclosed depth of the rivalry over the possession of women” (84).

5.
Critics haven’t decided on the date of the action of Sense
and Sensibility, but Domenico, though in his
eighties, gave lessons to within days of his death in 1802, and Henry
remained active much longer.

6.
“If swords are used,” read an eighteenth-century Irish Code
Duello, “the parties engage until one
is well blooded, disabled, or disarmed” (McNab 136-37).
Disarming, though a tactic practiced in fencing, was not usually
considered a satisfactory completion of a duel.

7.
Since the accuracy of pistols had improved with the years, Wellington’s
duel in 1829 (had the parties aimed at each other) would be more
likely to have a fatal effect than Wilkes’s in 1762.

8.
David Selwyn, in Jane Austen and Children,
provides information on the work involved in creating this intricate
and useless object (106-07).

9.
For instance, after their interrupted affair at Pimlico, McD—t and Chevalier
adjourn with Angelo to “a tea-garden, near Hogmore-lane, where
the glass passed round pretty freely,” and Chevalier shows off
the scars of previous encounters (H. Angelo 2:231-32).

10.
I am grateful to Isobel Grundy and Susan Allen Ford for supplying these examples.

Works Cited

Angelo, Domenic. The
School of Fencing with a General Explanation of the Principal
Attitudes and Positions Peculiar to the Art.
Trans. Henry Angelo. 1783. New York:
Land’s End, 1971. Trans. of L’École
d’Armes. 1763.

“The Substance of the Depositions of the Coroner’s
Inquest the 17th, 19th, and 21st of November [1712], on the Body of Duke Hamilton;
And the 15th, 18th, 20th, and 22d, on the Body of my Lord Mohun.”
Rpt. in The Thackeray Newsletter 16 (Nov. 1982): 4-6.